Everything in this family is maintained.

Remember that.” She rose, smoothed the front of her jacket with both hands, and walked to the French doors without waiting for a reply, her heels sharp on the flagstones.

I sat there with the velvet box heavy in my lap and understood that she was not warning me about gossip.

She was warning me about the closed doors, and about what maintenance costs.

I have thought often about Rosalind since, and I find I cannot hate her cleanly, which is its own kind of discomfort.